Into the Sunset
by Shan Jeniah
Summary: A one-shot exploring what happens after Trip and T'Pol ride off on the horse in "North Star." Sweet, but tragedy-touche, and a bit fluffy around the edges.


_**Into the Sunset**_

Yup, this was the life.

Trip Tucker felt the warm hands holding onto his chest, the breasts pressed firmly into his back, the encircling arms, and decided that, if he could pick one movie to star in, it would absolutely be a John Ford Western - so long as T'Pol was his costar, anyway. He wondered if he should tell her how good she looked in the skirt, blouse, and headband - but she had a way of not taking things at all the way he intended them...and he sure as hell didn't want to fight with her on a horse.

Nope, he didn't want to do a single damned thing that would break this spell. He'd gotten the knack of the reins, holding them loosely and letting the horse pick his own way down the road T'Pol had pointed them down. The weather was warm, but not too warm, and T'Pol was snug up against his back, her breath on his neck, and Trip wished he had his harmonica.

But he could still whistle -

"I am uncertain as to why you felt it necessary to use this animal as a means of conveyance."

Pop! Yup, that was the bubble bursting. Nothing like a pointed Vulcan comment to wreck everything.

"Because we're in the Wild West, T'Pol - "

"We are not."

"Close enough. Do you really need to analyze everything so literally?"

A short pause; he could almost feel her thinking that over. "I am a Vulcan, and a scientist, and the First Officer of _Enterprise_. All of these roles benefit from frequent and logical analysis."

"All right - I'll concede the round."

She ignored that. "The horse is traveling at 6 kilometers per hour. We can walk easily at 7.5 kilometers. Therefore, I don't understand why we are riding."

Damn. Her math was too good, as always. He hated when she was right - especially when it meant that he was wrong.

"This isn't the horse's top speed," he said, and it came out more like a growl - not that that would matter one bit to her. And, in the best Western tradition, he added, "You'd better hang on tight, little lady - " and he booted the horse hard in the ribs like he really was a movie cowboy.

He'd show her how much _she_ knew about horseback riding.

Trip accosted the animal with his heels, and the equine made a rather panicked sound and then assumed a new, faster gait. T'Pol was forced to learn quickly how to predict the jarring motion and move with it, but Trip didn't seem to have done so. Given his frustration with her, which was palpable, it was perhaps best not to enlighten him. He seldom responded well to such efforts on her part, making them most illogical and inefficient.

She calculated that they were now traveling at nearly 10 kilometers per hour, which was a more satisfactory speed, - but Trip grunted each time he landed in the saddle seat with a slapping sound that suggested a cumulative injury was a distinct possibility - a most unsatisfactory and illogical arrangement.

"Stop the animal, Commander."

"Why the hell - would I do that? You were just - complaining about - how slow we were - going!" The slapping motion fractured his statement, but only seemed to worsen his mood. "Make up your - mind, willya?"

"My mind is 'made up', Commander. I believe I can transition the horse to a more comfortable pattern of movement, without sacrificing speed."

"What the hell - makes you think - you know a - damned thing about - horses? They don't - even have them - on Vulcan - do they?"

"That is hardly relevant." He was what he might term "grumpy", and she felt it shaping her own mood. "I am in command, Mister Tucker, and you will stop this animal."

"Is that an order?"

"If it must be." Why did it seem unfair, to make it so, when it was for his own benefit? Moreover, why was she experiencing a most illogical regret that she would no longer be holding to his solid maleness?

Trip was mad. Mad at her, mad at himself, and mad at the horse. Mad at the damned movies - women _never_ acted like she did, in the Westerns.

As he yanked back on the reins, he remembered.

The horse went back a bit on its haunches. Damn! She'd never let him live it down if he made her fall off -

The women in the Westerns were never Vulcans.

And now he knew why.

But she kept her seat, and her grip on him, and they got stopped without a major loss of dignity. She slipped off to the side, ignoring the hand he put out for her, and then almost bounced back up in front of him - damned smart of her to have those skirts split for riding. She half twisted to look at him.

"Perhaps you had better hang on - tightly." And, before he could say anything else, she leaned forward, and touched the horse, and Trip snaked his arms around her just before the horse started moving. Damn - he could smell her distinct citrus and sandalwood scent, and the undersides of her breasts were just grazing his hands, but the animal was picking up speed, shifting into a slow smooth gallop, and he didn't dare move...

Maybe there were advantages to sharing a horse with Little Miss I Can Do _Everything_ Better Than You...she might be insufferably logical and competent, but she sure felt good, and the ride was smooth again, and he was starting to get aroused.

Trip closed his eyes and breathed her in, just enjoying the moment...

The horse stopped. "What - ?"

"These accoutrements are superflous and impede the efficient utilization of this animal as a means of transport."

"What the hell, T'Pol? We need the saddle and bridle."

"Why?"

"Because we do!" He flung his hands up, and the horse started, dancing a few steps. "See?"

"I see that you are alarming the animal. The saddle has only one seat, and there is an uncomfortable portion of it pressing against my posterior. I would be far more comfortable without it. I do not need the headgear; I indicated my intentions to the horse by touch - and this equipment includes a bar of metal thrust into the animal's mouth. That is both unnecessary and cruel." She didn't add that she felt the animal's discomfort, and his.

"You did it once - but neither one of us has ever been on a horse before -"

"I have ridden a sehlat." Must he argue with everything she said?

"Well, whatever the hell a sehlat is, T'Pol, I'm betting it's _not_ a horse. And how long ago _was_ that, anyway? You haven't been home for a few years, so at least that long, right?"

"I was a young child - six years old. But I rode- "

"A sehlat, not a horse."

"I concede the point."

Was it really going to be that easy? No - because she hadn't started the horse moving again, and that meant that she wasn't as ready to concede as she said she was. Hoping against all hope to distract her, he asked, "What's a sehlat, anyway?"

"A sehlat is a large predator."

"A predator? How large are we talking, and what the hell were _you _doing riding it?"

"Sehlats are approximately three times the size of this animal, and eight times its mass. I-Bara was semi-domesticated, and we shared a symbiotic connection. I was riding I-Bara because I wished to travel further than I could walk, and I was certain that my mother wouldn't allow it."

That tickled and terrified him all at once. "Ran away, did you? On the back of your enormous pet predator?"

"Not precisely on her back. Sehlats have sloping backs, and, if I fell, she might not have recognized me before her fangs caused mortal damage. The only logical way to ride a sehlat is upon its shoulders."

"Logical? There doesn't sound like there's anything logical about it, to me." All the while he was talking, though, he was also thinking, please forget about this idea of a naked horse, or I'm going to have to fess up to what you do to me...

"I was very young. However, that is not the point. I wish to make this journey more comfortable for all of us."

"Uh, well, about that..." How the hell was he going to say this without blushing?

"Yes, Commander?"

"Wish you'd call me Trip. Well, here's the thing. I think we need that saddlehorn between your backside and my front."

"Why?" She tipped her head. "Your complexion is changing. Are you all right? Is there some problem?"

"Yeah. Namely, that you are the owner of what Malcolm once aptly dubbed, 'an awfully nice bum.'"

"I don't understand."

"Course not. It means, T'Pol, that you have a nice posterior. Appealing."

"I fail to see the significance -"

"Well, you won't fail to _feel_ it, if we leave the saddle behind. Because there's no way at all I can have my arms around you and my front up against your back, and not- well - _respond_\- " He ducked his head and stuck his tongue into his cheek.

"Would you find that pleasurable?" Her voice was utterly calm.

Things never went this way in the Westerns.

It was perhaps an inappropriate question, but his expression said more than his indistinct words.

He would indeed enjoy it.

"Please dismount, Trip," she said softly, as she slipped off the animal once again. She didn't allow herself to think about her motivations, or the singing of hot blood in her veins, or the quiver that made it difficult to deal with the straps and buckles, so that it was a relief when Trip began to help without saying anything.

She was eager to feel what he had described. Perhaps too eager. But she wouldn't think about that, only this...

"You sure you wanna do this?"

"We've taken enough time, Commander Tucker." It was getting easier to mount the horse; and Trip looked at her for a moment longer before he shrugged and pulled himself up, not quite gracefully, but, when he settled behind her, wrapping his arms back around her waist, she leaned back against him, and signaled to the horse to resume the pace at which it had been traveling.

It was only moments before she felt the enticing hardness, and Trip's breath had shifted to something more urgent, something that set her heart to a swifter beating, and she pressed back, needing to assuage the empty ache of her stavril, wanting to know how he would respond...he groaned, softly, and her pheremones released in a wash of pleasurepain so intense, she barely bit back the whimper that tried to escape her...

She was in command of the mission, and the horse, but not herself...

What the hell had just happened here? She was practically pushing herself into his lap, and making little rotations with her pelvis, and little panting sounds, and she was quivering, her scent almost choking out even the scent of the horse and the scrub brush...

She wanted him...oh, hell, she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and he couldn't help pressing in, loving the way she felt up against him...

Oh, hell. If she was aroused, she wasn't in control. He'd had firsthand experience with that - he'd better think fast, or she was gonna forget why they were on this horse, and he wasn't sure he was up to putting up much of a fight...

"Listen, T'Pol..." He had to lean in close, so she'd hear him over the wind and the sound of pounding hooves, right? "Let me tell you the story about the time my great great - well, lots of greats - grandpa stole a farmer's horse, and swam it out to his ship, OK?" She didn't answer, but at least she didn't twist around and tackle him. That was something...and he could maybe distract himself, if not her...

"So he was in the service, and he was on shore leave and running late to get back to the ship before he was reported. He'd missed the last shuttle boat back -"

He went on, making up at least half of it, while she leaned against him, moving slowly and breathing fast under his arms. Damn, she was sexy...the story, Tucker. Keep telling the damned story...

T'Pol forced herself to listen to the story. She could feel why he was telling it. She wanted - she wanted what she'd never experienced. She wanted to find a hidden place to be alone with him, to claim and be claimed -

No. They had a mission to accomplish.

She would listen to this story, and enjoy his touch...

Hopefully, he wouldn't ask her about the story - because she was unable to retain any detail of it - but she knew his every breath, his every motion...

Trip tried not to cough when they finally reached a place close enough to start her scans. He was hoarse, and hoped like hell she wouldn't ask him more about the story, because he'd lost track of what he was saying a while back, and just kept making things up to have something besides her to focus on...

"Now, how are we going to deal with the horse? We've got no way to tie him up."

"I hadn't thought of that." Her voice sounded small - and a little _teary_? No, couldn't be...but then she made a small almost-sniffing sound, and pulled away.

"Hey, we all make mistakes, sometimes..."

"I should have -"

"T'Pol, you've never ridden a horse before, and you don't watch Westerns. I should've insisted we at least keep the lasso."

"What is that?" She slipped off, and hid her face behind the horse's shoulder. Why was she so upset by this -or was it her response to his - ahem -? But nothing had happened...not really...

"A lasso? It's a length of rope with a loop at one end. Essential equipment for a cowboy." He paused. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine." She didn't sound it, but she did sound a little better than she had.

But then she started sliding the skirt down her legs -

"What the _hell_ \- " Trip decided it was better that he get out of there, and fast. He could hear a trickle of water, just a bit ahead of them, and he aimed the horse at it and kicked lightly. "Have a drink with me, buddy."

He was a little surprised that she didn't follow him - T'Pol could be relentless, whether she was aroused or not, and she had been, he was sure of that. "What was she doing undressing? Is she waiting to ambush me?"

But if the horse knew, it didn't answer.

He couldn't stay away forever; they had a job to do. But he let the horse wander back, and decided that he wouldn't get off until he was sure she was stable. Not that he wouldn't love to be with her that way; not that he hadn't dreamed about it for years now...but he had a feeling that, if they got started, they weren't going to stop anytime soon...

And they had work to do.

T'Pol was sitting in her meditation pose when he got back. "Uh, T'Pol -? Am I intruding?"

"I am finished." She stood up, and he was relieved to see that she had her skirts on. She bent to pick up a raveled white rope, and tossed it to him. "Will this be sufficient to tie the horse?"

Trip tugged on it- she'd torn her petticoats and braided them together into about a four-meter rope. It was neat and strong; when he tugged, the plaits tightened.

"Damn, woman - is there _anything_ you can't do?"

"Yes."

I cannot resist the pull you have upon me.

But she didn't say that. She'd found enough equilibrium to function, but it was tenuous, and she didn't dare to trust it.

"Are you gonna share it with me, or keep me guessing?"

Quick thought was needed.

"I can't crochet. I have tried, but it has proven more challenging by far than learning to use chopsticks."

Trip smiled, and she very nearly lost her resolve. Such animation of features. Such an inordinately illogical effect upon her... "Just so happens that I'm a damned good crochet teacher."

"You're telling another story."

He slid off the horse, grunting a little as he landed heavily. He looped her rope over the animal's neck, knotted it, and tied it around a small but sturdy tree. "Nope, not this time. My sister had trouble, too - she tried books and videos, and asking people to teach her - but none of it worked. She was in tears..." She apparently wasn't the only one who could use the large herbivore as a screen; Trip leaned in against the horse's hip, but his voice was thick, and gave him away. "So, I learned how, for Elizabeth. And then I broke it down for her, a little every time she wanted to try, as many times as she needed."

T'Pol was drawn to him, drawn to his pain and his need for comfort. But she didn't know how to comfort a human who had suffered such a loss. "I grieve with you," she whispered, as though he were Vulcan.

"Awww, hell, T'Pol -" he pressed his face into the warm animal body, and she stood there, not knowing how else to help. "Sorry," emerged a muffled voice.

"You have suffered a grave loss. You have no need to apologize."

"You're being mighty sweet...just gimme a minute, will you?"

"Take all the time you need, Trip. I'll begin the survey."

"Please stay here - just for a minute."

"I'll stay." It felt unaccountably good to know that he wished her to, in this vulnerable moment. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Just - just be here." Another three breaths, and a long fourth, then he dragged a hand across his eyes, and moved away from the horse. "Sometime, if you want, I'll show you the blanket Lizzie crocheted for me."

"I'd be honored." There was something deeply gratifying in his offer, in his desire for her companionship. She wanted to offer something that would tell him that she wished to be near him, to learn more of him.

"Trip - will you teach me to crochet?"

The words came to her, and from her, before she could repress them.

"You really want to learn?"

"Yes."

"All right then. Since you're teaching me neuropressure, it seems only fair." He patted the horse. "Shall we get on with this?"

"That would be advisable- it will be dark soon."

They walked away, to make their survey -

"Hey, T'Pol?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"Thanks. For, well, for everything."

"You are welcome, Trip. To everything."

Fascinating, the way his color shifted, as he realized what she'd said. "You will go to port; I will take starboard. Remain out of sight." She left him standing there, rubbing his mouth with his hand.


End file.
